


20 Questions and Whiskey

by CommonNonsense



Series: Ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-it fic, Infidelity, M/M, like not the worst infidelity ever but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two things that usually go alright together, unless everyone in the room has repressed feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	20 Questions and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely practicefortheheart on Tumblr, who also drew a nice picture to go with it: http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/post/72594465120/sloppy-drunk-kisses-for-syldoran-because-she

John was drunk off his arse, and it hardly took a deductive genius to figure that one out.

Actually, the deductive genius was _also_ drunk off his arse, so there was that.

It did make for a rather amusing sight, though, one John really wished he could record for posterity. Sherlock was, without a doubt, ridiculous and silly, but he was never ridiculous and silly in the regular way. He was ridiculous in the “twirl around and tell people dust is eloquent” way, not in the “get drunk and play stupid games with your flatmate” way. But here he was, drunk off several graduated cylinders’ worth of beer (and a couple of sneaky whiskey shots to boot), slumped in his squashy chair, laughing at the stupidest things, with a sticky note on his forehead. It filled John with a warmth that had nothing to do with the drinks.

It was a rubbish stag night, for the most part, but it was worth it to watch Sherlock Holmes play normal-people games. While drunk.

“Okay, ummm …” Sherlock hummed and slouched even further, searching for a question. If he weren’t drunk, he probably would have deduced the name on his Post-It by now. John thought it was rather clever, choosing Sherlock’s own name for it. He giggled a little.

“Am I human?” Sherlock asked, his posh public-school accent slurred, and John had to suppress more giggles.

“Yeah,” he answered, and the game continued.

Unfortunately, John hadn’t the faintest clue what the note affixed to his own forehead was supposed to say, because Sherlock was more or less awful at this game and everyone’s deductive reasoning skills deteriorated with enough ethanol.

He’d figured out his subject was a human, so John continued in that vein.”Am I a lady, then?” he asked through his smiling. It was impossible to stop laughing as he continued. “Am I a _pretty_ lady?”

Sherlock stared for a moment, then confessed that he hadn’t the faintest clue, which sent them both into peals of laughter yet again. John’s sides ached from how much he had laughed tonight.

That was one of the things he loved about Sherlock: how much he made John laugh.

“Well,” Sherlock went on, with an air of his usual dramatics, “am _I_ pretty, then, John?”

“What?” John smothered his laughter behind his hand, to poor effect.

“You heard me perfectly well.” Sherlock grinned, lit by the dim light of the lamp behind him. The light caught on his dark curls and softened the sharp lines of his face. John was struck by the thought that he really, really wanted to kiss him.

“John?”

“Yeah. You’re bloody gorgeous.”

“So a nice-ish man, not as tall as he thinks he is, who’s apparently _pretty_.” Sherlock giggled some more (behavior he rarely would have engaged in sober).

“Hey, hey, I didn’t say pretty. I said bloody _gorgeous._ ”

“Sorry. ‘Bloody gorgeous,’ then.” Sherlock tipped his head back on the chair. “Can’t think of anyone fitting _that_. You don’t usually describe men that way, anyway.”

“Yeah, well.” John didn’t actually have an argument for that. Then he paused, and leaned forward. “You are, though.”

Sherlock blinked slowly, hazily. “John?”

“I—I’m not—I don’t mean the name. Well, I do mean the name. I mean—” John groaned and pitched forward. He caught himself with a hand on Sherlock’s knee again. Sherlock’s skin was warm under the smooth cloth of his tailored trousers.

Sherlock frowned, reached up, and delicately plucked the note off his forehead. He stared at it for a long moment, glanced up at John, and said, “Oh.”

Then he leaned forward, fumbled to find a hold in the front of John’s jumper, and pulled. John stood and stumbled into Sherlock’s personal space, clumsily grasping the arms of the chair before he could collapse into Sherlock’s lap entirely. From this distance (a whopping eight inches or so), Sherlock’s eyes were stormy grey, highlighted by the gold light of the lamp.

One of Sherlock’s hands snaked up to the back of John’s neck, but John was already leaning his head down when Sherlock went to pull. Their mouths collided in the middle with a clack of their teeth. John winced and tried to back off to try again, but Sherlock followed insistently, missing and pressing his mouth sloppily to John’s chin instead.

“Sherlock—Sherlock, stop.” John managed to free up his hands by giving up and dropping himself into Sherlock’s lap, then grasped Sherlock’s face between both palms. Sherlock stilled immediately, eyes wide.

This was probably incredibly stupid, John realized, before dipping his head and kissing Sherlock gently.

It was just a light touch at first; John pressed an overly-careful kiss to Sherlock’s upper lip, trying to avoid breaking teeth again. Sherlock sighed against John’s mouth, his mouth opening immediately under John’s. John took advantage, tentativeness going straight out the window as their tongues brushed.

It wasn’t the best kiss in the world. It was, frankly, rather terrible, given that both participants were drunk and uncoordinated. More than once one of them ended up slightly off-target, and Sherlock was over-excited and sloppy while John tried to keep them both relatively on track. But every so often, a soft whimper escaped Sherlock’s throat, and the sound sent a shudder down John’s spine every time.

“John,” Sherlock murmured after some long minutes.

“Hm?” With Sherlock’s mouth tipped out of his reach, John focused his attention on the side of the man’s long, pale neck instead. It was just begging for lines of kisses.

“What are we doing?”

“Well, I _thought_ we were having a really fantastic snog.” John punctuated the statement with a firm kiss to the dip behind Sherlock’s ear, making his breath hitch.

“You’re getting—you’re getting married,” Sherlock protested, before humming and tilting his head to the side for more kisses.

“Mm-hm.”

“John.”

John gave his best put-upon sigh and sat up. Sherlock looked no happier about it than he felt himself. “Fine,” he said. “You’re probably right. As usual. I can’t, because I’m getting married.” The thought wormed its way through the haze of his head until it finally cemented.

Right. He was getting married. He _should not_ be snogging Sherlock in the living room.

“Right,” he said aloud. “Right. We should just …” He let the thought finish itself. Sherlock, expression now unreadable, kissed him one last time, so delicate and sweet compared to only moments ago, that John felt something seize painfully in his chest.

He stood. There was a knock at the door, and Sherlock was up immediately after, putting several feet of cold distance between them.

The benefit of the alcohol was, at least, that John probably wouldn’t remember this well enough tomorrow to miss it.


End file.
